


Pretty Boy

by ourcrashdownblue



Series: Brave Boy [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel is Jack Kline's Parent, Crying Jack Kline, Dean Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Graceless Jack Kline, Hurt Jack Kline, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Non-Consensual Touching, One Shot, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Protective Dean Winchester, Public Humiliation, Sam Winchester is Jack Kline's Parent, Verbal Humiliation, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24546172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourcrashdownblue/pseuds/ourcrashdownblue
Summary: Jack is attacked outside of one of the dive motels he, Castiel, and Dean are staying at after a hunt.**GRAPHIC** Please proceed with caution.
Series: Brave Boy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778860
Comments: 13
Kudos: 135





	Pretty Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own or reserve any rights.

“Ugggh,” Dean groaned as he slumped onto the motel bed, “Nope. Not even gonna take my freakin’ boots off. Just gonna sleep right here, like this,” Jack watched the hunter smile and nuzzle the rough, cheap fabric of the bed cover against his cheek, no doubt a familiar roughness at this point, “Oh, I am definitely getting my four hours tonight.”

Jack set down his backpack onto the little white table by the door that every motel he’d ever been in seemed to have. He’d asked Cas once if it actually was the exact same table in each motel and if motel owners were, for some reason, compelled by law to include that little white table in their decor. Cas had assured him that that was not the case, but Jack had been further confused by the glimmer of amusement in Cas’s eyes at the question.

It was not unlike the small amused smile that his father now wore as he side-stepped where the hunter’s dirt-covered legs hung off the bed, “Dean…”

“Fine, I know, I know--”

“You’ll be grumpy if you wake up still covered in mud,” Cas said smoothly, brow still arched.

“Hey now! For your information, I do not get ‘grumpy’, alright? I’m a grown man,” Dean rolled his eyes, a smirk tugged at his lips which were still pressed against the bedding, “and grown men don’t get grumpy, they get pissy.”

Dean rolled off the bed with yet another dramatic groan, grabbing his duffel and carrying it into the bathroom with him.

Cas only rolled his eyes and placed his trenchcoat on a hanger in the closet. Even though he’d never seen his father wear any clothes other than his well-loved suit and coat, Jack sometimes liked to imagine what Cas would look like if he were one of those paper dolls with the interchangeable outfits that he’d seen at a store once. What would Cas look like if he dressed like Dean and Sam? Or if he wore shorts? Or a costume that made him look like Santa Claus? That idea always made Jack smile.

“Did you remember your sleepwear, Jack?” Cas asked, and for a celestial being, even he sounded tired.

“Yes, I packed them, just like you reminded me to,” Jack said as he began to dig them out. It ruffled Jack a little that he couldn’t just magically change his clothes anymore since he’d lost his powers, but his pajamas were actually an old pair of Dean’s that were worn-soft and draped over him loosely in the best way. In all honesty, Jack would most likely still pack these pajamas even if he could ‘mojo’--as Dean called it--new ones.

Cas sat down at one of the chairs beside the little white table, and hefted one of the thicker tomes that he’d brought along from the bunker up onto the table, “I suggest you rest now, Jack, I will have to wake you rather early tomorrow.”

“Asses in the car at six,” Dean added, voice muffled by the bathroom door.

“Then we are meeting Sam in St. Louis?” Jack asked.

Cas nodded, not looking up from the book. Dean emerged from the bathroom and plopped right back onto the bed in what Jack recognized as Dean’s clean sleep jeans and shirt, grabbing the remote off the bedside table.

Jack shuffled over to the bathroom and closed the door behind him, shucking off his t-shirt and the mud-caked jeans, stuffing them into a plastic bag and tying it off. Jack let out a heavy sigh he hadn’t even realized he was holding in at the feel of the soft cotton t-shirt and loose sweatpants against his tired limbs. Even though Cas did not see the appeal of wearing different pieces of clothing for different circumstances, Jack definitely did. He sometimes even wondered why humans didn’t just wear pajamas all the time. He’d have to ask Dean sometime, but not when the hunter was this tired.

Jack ran a washcloth over his face, getting any dirt that dotted him. Freshly washed and changed, he walked back out to the main area to find that Dean must’ve turned off the main lights for himself and just left the lamps on for Cas. Jack was placing the plastic bag of dirty clothes into his backpack beside Cas when he suddenly got an idea. You know what would make him feel even better…

“Cas, can I please go get a soda?”

His father looked up at him with squinty eyes, taking in his pajama-clad frame, then he glanced out into the dark of the night where, as they knew all too well, awful things could be lurking.

“I’m not sure that’s the best idea, Jack,” Cas said, voice slightly softer than usual.

“Please? I’m thirsty and I saw a machine nearby when we drove in…?” Jack had become aware that if he wore a slight frown and widened his eyes a little, Cas, Sam, and even Dean, were much more likely to agree to whatever he proposed. Was it Dean who had called it--his ‘puppy eyes’ face?

Sure enough, Jack could see Cas’s resistance melt just enough and he slumped his shoulders, “Alright--”

“But take my knife with ya, never know what kinda creeps are staying at this dump,” Dean added, not taking his eyes off the sitcom that had started playing.

Jack beamed and he threw on his jacket, tucked the sheathed knife into the back of his pants like Dean wore his gun, and grabbed some money from his pack before he bounded out the door.

“Be careful,” Cas called just before the door shut with a _crack_.

The night air had cooled considerably, even in the half hour since they’d entered their motel room. A light breeze sent a ripple of--what Sam had taught him were--‘goosebumps’ across his legs under the lightweight fabric of the sweatpants. Jack loved nights like this. The moon was just shy of full (which wasn’t surprising since werewolves had been the whole reason they were on a case anyway), crickets chirped, and the chill of the air prickled Jack’s skin in the most soothing way possible. If only he could find that soda machine.

When they had pulled in, Jack could swear the brightly lit machine had been situated near a scattering of picnic tables not too far from the room they had ended up renting. But, it appeared he had been mistaken. _Dumb, tired brain_ , Jack admonished himself.

Jack rounded to the back of the motel where a nearly identical row of room doors mirrored the side they were staying on, the only difference being that this new side faced a strip of grass and thin clump of trees on the other side of which was a run-down bar. That must be where the voices were coming from.

Jack didn’t give the bar another thought when he finally spotted, there at the opposite end of the motel from Jack, was the soda machine. Jack grinned to himself and strolled the length of the doors, soaking in the sounds of the night. He jingled the quarters in his pants pocket and even found himself humming a Styx song that Dean had played for him. The one with the ‘Mr. Roboto’ person.

Once Jack sidled up to the soda machine, he smiled at its colorful glow. Soda machines were one of his favorite things about being on the road with his family, it seemed that no matter what motel or gas station they stopped at, Jack could always find the familiar light. And they always, always, always had his favorite...root beer. This machine was no exception.

Suddenly, as Jack was loading his bills into the machine, the sharp sound of shattering glass cracked in the air. Jack looked over his shoulder at what he could see of the bar’s parking lot through the tree limbs. A new peal of laughter erupted from a group of men swaying at the bar’s back entrance, it appeared one of them had smashed some kind of bottle against the pavement. Jack once again admonished himself for being startled so easily before he turned back to the machine.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled and the unmistakable feeling of eyes on him shot adrenaline down his spine. He looked over his other shoulder and noticed that, indeed, there was a man walking toward Jack the way he’d come. The man swayed slightly, like the men by the bar, though he seemed to be moving with purpose.

 _He’s probably just going to his room,_ Jack reasoned, _I’ll just get my soda and leave the man in peace._

Sweat slicked Jack’s palms as he picked up the pace loading the last of his coins and bills into the machine. Except…

“Another dollar?” Jack muttered to himself. Jack could swear he had grabbed the correct amount of change that was required for his root beer. It had been the same amount ever since Dean had taught him how to use his beloved machines.

“Hey, there,” a sharp voice startled him, “Need another buck?”

The man was now leaning against one of the motel’s pillars only a few feet from Jack. He had cropped sandy-blond hair with smooth pale skin and a smirk that reminded Jack of Dean. He was nearly as tall as Dean too, with the same broad shoulders that seemed to loom over Jack--but with this man it was more unnerving than comforting. The man raked his eyes up and down Jack, his smirk growing a little wider as he settled his unyielding eyes back on the boy’s.

Jack nodded with a sad smile at the man, he did, in fact, need another ‘buck’ if he wanted to get his root beer. He’d have to go back to the room and ask Dean for another dollar. That was if the hunter was still awake.

“Could you please watch this machine, so that I can go back to my room and get another dollar?” Jack asked.

“I gotcha,” the man began, pushing away from the pillar and stepping closer, fishing a fist of single bills and yanking one out of the mix before shoving them back into his pocket,“no worries. Besides, a pretty boy like you probably doesn’t usually buy his own drinks anyway.”

The man seemed to make a point of brushing his side against Jack as he fed the machine. At the familiar _clunk clunk_ , the man leaned down to grab the ice-cold can. His eyes never left Jack’s, even as he had to look up through his eyelashes.

“Thank you for the soda,” Jack grinned as the root beer was handed to him, “I’ve never been called a ‘pretty boy’ before.”

“Really? Now that’s just a damn shame,” The man moved impossibly closer into Jack’s space, the edge of alcohol hitting Jack’s nose,“‘Cause you’re _definitely_ the cutest twink I’ve ever seen, sweetheart. What are you doing out here all alone?”

Jack took a small step back, remembering the talk Cas had given him about personal space, even though the man didn’t seem to mind. Something dark was brewing behind the twinkle in the man’s eyes, and Jack felt his stomach tighten a little.

“I, uh, I just wanted to get a soda before bed,” Jack said. He also clearly remembered Cas talking to him about being polite and answering when someone asks you a question. Though he wasn’t quite sure what a ‘twink’ was. Maybe Cas would know.

“Oh, is it your bedtime, baby?”

_‘Baby’?_

The man took yet another step closer. Jack tried to match the step. A cool flash ran across Jack’s skin when this final step now found him plastered against the soda machine. He could feel the handle of Dean’s knife digging into the small of his back, but a prickle returned when he realized that he’d have a far more difficult time grabbing the weapon if this man suddenly grew fangs.

“Yes, I should go to bed soon, I need to leave early in the morning,” Jack nodded, blushing at the crack of his voice.

“And are you sleeping all alone tonight in that bed of yours, angel?”

“H-How did you know?” Jack’s eyes flew open at the word, his voice shakier than he had expected. How could this man possibly have guessed he was an angelic being when he didn’t even have his powers?

“Oohoo,” the man’s grin turned almost predatory, “I guess you just...got that _look_ about you, baby.”

The man brought firm arms up to the machine, bracketing Jack’s head between them. He leaned even closer, his whiskey-laced breath fell down over Jack’s face. One of the man’s hands came down to stroke Jack’s cheek, an unfamiliar sensation that only left Jack with more questions than answers. A fiery bolt of anxiousness ran down his spine, something was wrong here.

“‘Look’?”

Jack’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it hardly needed to be this close to the sandy-haired man.

“Yeah...” the man brought his hand up to run his fingers through Jack’s hair, twisting into a grip at the crown of the boy’s head, “that look like you haven’t gotten a good fucking in _far_ too long.”

Jack didn’t even realize he had dropped the root beer can until it made a heavy thunk on the concrete and he felt it roll to a halt at his feet.

Oh. _Oh._

Sex. The man was talking about sex. ‘Fucking’, as he’d called it.

_And he wants to sex me?!_

“Uh, huh,” every nerve in Jack’s body told him to run, his feet itched to run away, “I-I, uh--”

“Are you a virgin, pretty boy? I bet you’re nice and tight, aren’t you?” the man’ voice now sickeningly sweet.

“I nee-need--” Jack couldn’t make his dry mouth get out the words he needed it to and his knees felt like they were locked in place.

“What do you _need_ , angel?”

The familiar word seemed to snap Jack back into his trembling body, and he felt his muscles start to function again. He tried to slowly slide away from the man’s attention, hoping that maybe the sandy-haired man would just let go if he slipped far enough away, “I-I need to go, uh, back to my r-room…”

“Good idea, sweetheart,” the man’s unmoving arms still blocked Jack’s view, making him feel like a caged hamster, “Let’s take this back to your place, and, sugar, I’ll give you the pounding of a lifetime. You ain’t gonna walk right for a week.”

_‘Pounding’?_

Every muscle in Jack’s body tightened, and he felt like his bones might rattle right out of his body, “N-No, gotta--I wanna go to sl-sleep alone...”

The sweet drip of the man’s words soured in an instant. And now whatever fake twinkle may have been there before was now snuffed out.

“I don’t think so, baby,” the once-playful grip in Jack’s hair suddenly tightened into a vice. Lightning tore across Jack’s scalp, making him squeeze his eyes shut, his mouth falling open in a gasp, “Come on now, don’t be such a princess. I bought you your soda, I told you you were pretty, I gave you a nice smile--now don’t you think you can do somethin’ nice for me, pretty boy? Can’t we make each other feel good, huh?”

“S-Stop--ugh!” Jack groaned out, doubling forward when the man’s knee was harshly slotted between Jack’s legs, right in the tender place he peed from. Pain radiated out where the knee had collided too quickly, knocking the breath out of Jack’s lungs. He didn’t know that place could hurt _this bad_. A wave of nausea rolled through him.

“Maybe, yeah, maybe you could do that Something Nice with your mouth? How does that sound, angel?” The vice grip in Jack’s hair started to press down, forcing Jack to sink lower and lower. His knees had gone weak from the agony in his groin, and his hands scrambled, not able to pick a pain to fight off first.

“Plea-Please, stop!” Jack croaked out.

“Shhhhh, baby. Just relax and I’m gonna put that pretty mouth to good use...” When the knee that had been thrust between his legs suddenly drew back, Jack’s knees buckled, doubling over his groin, “There we go--just like that…”

Bent forward, Jack could feel that the knife had shimmied down his pant leg in the commotion. His stomach dropped--there was no way he’d be able to grab it, unsheathe it, and use it before he was surely stopped by death grip holding him down. Especially not with the rolls of pain still emanating from between his legs, dissolving his thoughts like waves crashing against rocks.

The rough hand that had been wound in his hair and smelled of alcohol and corn chips grabbed Jack’s jaw in a crushing hold, forcing it open. Every muscle in Jack’s body locked up as the man’s--his _attacker’s_ \--other hand came to Jack’s eye level. Jack’s eyes scrunched closed as he waited for the hand to slap him across the face, or maybe begin beating him to a pulp. Monsters, even human ones, seemed to have an affinity for using their fists mercilessly.

But the blow never came, instead Jack’s eyes cracked open at the sound of a _ziiiiiip_. The man had hiked up his shirt a little to reveal a thin trail of hair on his stomach that was unfamiliar to Jack--he was smooth there. He’d undone the top button of his jeans and the zipper to reveal--

Jack’s eyes shot open and his body lurched ever so slightly at the sight in front of him. The man had untucked his penis from his undergarments and it now stood thick and turgid in front of Jack’s face.

Ice rushed through Jack’s veins and coherent sentences failed to string together in his mind. He could feel that he was in danger--even if he wasn't quite sure what was going on, he knew enough. He had only seen a ‘penis’--another word he’d been taught from a blushing Dean--other than his own once, back before he realized that a closed bathroom door in the bunker meant ‘keep out’. Sam had sat him down and they had shared a brief conversation about privacy. But this--this was purposeful. Why? Why had this man chosen to reveal himself directly in front of Jack like this? He’d certainly never seen an appendage that looked so red and... _angry_. If it caused the sandy-haired man pain, his face didn’t show it.

“W-Wha..?” Jack had not realized the words had tumbled out of his smushed mouth until the utterance rang in his ears.

Was this man--was he planning to...pee on Jack? In--in his mouth even? Was that why he’d exposed himself? Another shiver of disgust wracked down his spine at the thought. But a tiny, scary seed of a thought began to bud in his brain. What if…? No, that wouldn’t make any sense...why would--but that would hurt Jack _so badly_ \--

“Mouth’s gonna look so good on my cock, baby boy,” the man ran his thumb along Jack’s lower lip in a parody of a loving touch.

Oh.

Jack understood now. It was _supposed_ to hurt. That was the _point_. This man, for reasons Jack had previously thought only supernatural monsters were motivated by, wanted to hurt him. To take from Jack--to use Jack. The man wanted to hurt him, not just with the pain of the act itself...but with the disgust and fear and shame that was already bubbling up and threatening to boil over inside him. This--this act of penetrating that Jack’s skin crawled just think about...was this what sex was? No wonder his fathers had avoided telling him about it.

“You bite me, I’ll kill you--do you understand, baby?” The sickeningly sweet tone had returned but was far undercut by their meaning.

When Jack’s saucer eyes only continued to stare at the veiny flesh before him in horror, a sharp, stinging kick to his tense thigh pulled Jack’s attention back up to the sandy-haired man. There was such coldness in those eyes. Like a vampire or werewolf’s eyes--but almost worse because this was just a human, a human hurting another like they’d done since Cain. How had Jack ever thought this man resembled Dean when there was so much uncaring in his gaze?

“You hear me, bitch?”

Jack felt his head nod of its own volition, his body seemingly accepting its fate before his mind could.

The man’s lips twitched up in a smirk, “Good boy.”

The world whirled slower for Jack as he watched the man smear some kind of fluid spilling over from the tip of his penis all across its length, giving only a few quick strokes. The fingers the man had clutched to Jack’s jaw squeezed impossibly tighter. He guided the wet tip to Jack’s twisted lips, and he traced the boy’s lips with a possessive hum.

Then he pushed in.

He _thrust_ in.

All the way in.

Jack choked, throat and lungs spasming in interrupted coughs. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see through the watering of his eyes. His body jolted awake at the cut to his air supply and he thrashed in place. Panic set fire to his nerves and he could feel everything. The bitter, horrid taste was nearly drowned out in the sea of all the other sensations. Nearly.

He tried to scream out, cry out around penis abusing his throat--but the vibrations his muffled cries made only seemed to spur his attacker to thrust harder.

“Fuck... _yes_ , sweetheart, _yes_ …”

He jerked and twisted futilely in the rough hands that held him in place like sharp hooks held meat in butcher shops. That’s all he was now--all he felt like: meat. He was no more a participant in this act of consuming than the Thanksgiving turkeys he’d seen being stuffed on television.

He was simply a mouth to this man, no matter the sweet words his attacker used. He was a warm hole to...to be _fucked’._ Would he ever be able to look in a mirror at his mouth again and not see it as a thing, a piece that felt so disconnected from the rest of his body?

“So good-- _ugh_ , fuck, so good for me, baby.”

His fathers had always taught Jack to be brave, especially in the face of monsters. He’d seen Sam and Dean spit in the faces of their enemies even when they had their hands tied behind their backs and everything seemed hopeless. They laughed in the face of evil. Always brave and sure, always finding a way to escape. But Jack didn’t feel brave. And though every part of his mind screamed for him to escape, his body suddenly felt like it was made of cement bricks. Sobs began to ripple through him.

“Mouth so, _unnhh_ , hungry for my cock, huh, angel?”

_My fathers would be so ashamed of me._

Jack’s pinched eyes suddenly shot open--he heard the most beautiful sound in the world. It was the voice of an angel. His angel specifically.

“Jack?”

The questioning voice got closer until Jack finally saw the flutter of a tan trenchcoat out of the corner of his watery eyes at the far end of the motel, and to Jack’s all-consuming relief, the man’s assault suddenly froze.

“Jack?!” Jack could hear the thunderous roar in Cas’s voice as the angel’s eyes had no doubt taken in the image Jack made.

Jack felt a fresh roil of nausea grip him at the picture his mind’s eye painted of himself here on his knees.

“You have exactly two seconds to _get the fuck away_ from the kid before I drive this machete _all the way up your ass!_ ” Dean’s voice suddenly rang out on Jack’s other side, and Jack felt relief lump in his raw throat and burn at the backs of his eyes.

Jack’s body slammed back against the soda machine then doubled back over himself as his attacker pushed him away and tried to make a run for it. But before he could do more than turn on his heel, Cas was on him, his eyes blazing blue as he grabbed hold of the man’s head.

“Wha--!” Light suddenly exploded from every pore and crevice of the sandy-haired man’s body in a flash, raw fury twisting the angel’s face as the boom of light disappeared almost as suddenly as it had appeared. The man’s dead body wetly slumped to the ground, his eyes and mouth nothing more than charred, black craters.

Jack’s body shook where he’d slumped to, curled up on the ground in the abrupt quiet, his arms hugged tightly around his stomach and covering his eyes. He felt like nothing more than a puddle on the hard concrete.

“Jack?!” Dean fell to his knees beside Jack, his hands hovered over the boy, hesitating, and he felt the warmth radiate off of the hunter’s almost-touch. Jack could not blame Dean for not wanting to touch him. He wouldn’t want to touch a used piece of meat either. Jack lurched his head to the side when his nausea finally got the better of him and felt all the sick expelled from his stomach pool on the concrete, “Hey, hey, hey, I gotcha, kid. I gotcha now.”

A strong, familiar hand finally laid gently on Jack’s back and made soothing circles over his t-shirt. Jack flinched at the touch. His stomach gave one more exhausted squeeze at the shame that seemed to coat his skin like a second layer of sweat. He felt himself being rolled over. Frantic green and blue eyes wandered all over Jack’s colorless face, seeking out any cuts or bruises.

“Jack, can you hear me?” Cas’s usually soothing, steady voice sounded choked and strained. Jack could only give the barest nod and squeeze his eyes shut against his fathers. Even if he could not stop them from looking at him, he could not face their staring.

Bone-deep shivers continued to wrack his body. He tried to twist to the side away from them, anything to make the pain and the humiliation more bearable--but found that his head landed against Dean’s flannel-covered arm. Without any hesitation this time, the hunter’s arms slid around the boy and pulled Jack up against his body. Jack took deep stuttering breaths against Dean's warm chest, filling his lungs with the leather and gun oil smells that clung to the soft t-shirt layered under his father’s flannel. Scents he’d come to know so well. And though each familiar breath he took soothed the pounding heart, his throat felt like it was being crushed. He tried with every fiber of his body to will the tears away-- _Winchesters don’t cry_ \--but his body won out in the end.

“I-I’m sorry--so sorry--” Jack did not recognize his voice.

“No reason to be sorry, kid, not about this. Not ever, okay? You didn’t do a thing wrong. I should’ve gone with you, okay? My fault not yours,” Dean’s voice was steady and practiced, and Jack couldn’t even imagine how many times Dean had had to soothe someone with that voice, “But I got ya now, okay? We’re here, Jack.”

“Jack, what happened? Did he...did he touch you anywhere else?” Cas’s voice was more composed now, filled with gentleness as well as a barely-masked pain.

Jack wasn’t quite sure he even knew what happened either. He could only shake his head ‘no’, a new wave of tears had him burying his head in Dean’s shoulder.

Dean squeezed him impossibly closer.

“Cas, bring that sorry sack of shit back to life so I can kill him myself,” Dean all but growled, though his voice cracked at the end.

Suddenly, the last thing Jack wanted was for his fathers to turn away, to leave him to his shame. He wanted them as close as possible, so close that all he would be able to see was their faces, and all he’d hear was the safety of their heartbeats. With one hand balled up in Dean’s flannel, Jack’s other hand reached out blindly to find the trenchcoat he could feel dragging along his knee. He wrapped his hand in the comforting fabric and held on for dear life. How could he ever imagine his father wearing anything but that coat, it was just as much a part of Cas’s borrowed body as his blue eyes or dark hair. Cas’s hand came to cup Jack’s head, and a gentle tendril of grace flowed through Jack, dispelling the pain that lingered throughout his body.

“Oh, Jack,” Cas whispered.

And even after the tendril had receded, Jack keened into the touch until Cas brought his other hand to soothe over the boy’s arm.

All too soon, Jack felt Dean gently pulling back to meet the boy’s eyes. Jack wanted nothing more than to be wrapped back up in the comfort of his fathers, but he met the hunter’s gaze all the same.

“We need to go now, Jack,” there was firmness in Dean’s voice, but softness still filled his eyes, “We’d better get outta here before the cops come ‘round and find that Kentucky-fried bitch.”

Jack sniffled and took a final calming breath. He nodded. He could do this.

Dean and Cas both kept a steadying grip on the boy as he slid back up the soda machine and shifted to stand tall on his own two feet. The forgotten knife skittered out of his pant leg and onto the concrete dangerously close to the puddle of sick. Jack reached for it and stared at the ground as he held the weapon back out to Dean.

“‘M sorry--it slipped. I--I couldn’t reach--” Jack croaked.

“It’s okay, Jack. Remember? No need to be sorry,” Dean looped the knife to his belt but brought a grounding hand back up to rest protectively on the boy, “My fault, not yours.”

“Dean,” Cas’s voice was still uncharacteristically soft, but a note of warning edged the angel’s word. He never liked when Dean blamed himself--nor did Jack for that matter. But Jack found he had no energy to formulate a sentence to agree.

Balling up the sleeve of his jacket, Jack quickly swept away the remaining tear tracks on his cheeks, “I-I am very...tired.”

‘Tired’ was not the right word, but Jack didn’t know what the right word was for the clawing in the pit of his stomach. Was there a word?

Dean cleared his throat and set his shoulders, as he looked at Jack, “How ‘bout Cas and I grab the stuff from the room and you can take a load off in the backseat, huh? You can catch a few zzz’s on the drive back?”

Jack nodded, and looked up at Dean, voice rough and throat aching for reasons he pushed out of his mind,“Can we--can we play that ‘Mr. Roboto’ song in Baby? I-I really liked it.”

“‘Course, kid. Come on,” Dean’s lips twitched into a sad smile that didn’t reach his eyes. In the safe anchoring of Dean’s warm hand on the back of his neck, and Cas’s protective touch resting at the small of his back, Jack and his fathers made their way back to the familiar safety of the Impala.


End file.
